Morn of the Living Dead
by Tempestt Londyn
Summary: The voodoo priestess and her puppet waltz together in sordid harmony, effortlessly synchronizing, in this, their eternally cursed opera of the underworld.


**Disclaimer: **I own neither song nor saga.

**Author's Note/Warning**: This story references and contains interludes of Edgar Allan Poe's classic, "The Fall of the House of Usher." Also, smut...or...something in its neighborhood. Happy Holidays!

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><p><em>An angel's smile is what you sell<em>

_You promise me Heaven_

_Then put me through Hell_

_Chains of love got a hold on me_

_When passion's a prison_

_You can't break free..._

_Oh, you're a loaded gun_

_Oh there's nowhere to run_

_No one can save me_

_The damage is done..._

_Paint your smile on your lips_

_Blood red nails on your fingertips_

_A schoolboy's dream; you act so shy_

_Your very first kiss _

_Was your first kiss goodbye..._

_Shot through the heart _

_And you're too blame_

_You give love a bad name_

_I played my part _

_And you play your game_

_You give love a bad name..._

Bon Jovi, "You Give Love a Bad Name"

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><p>She is devilishly enticing, a wolf in sheep's clothing, dispatched from the Heathen Gods to christen him with misery.<p>

This might, to some ears, resonate as a biased interpretation. But the 'some' are hypocritical, their persons lacking intimacy with any of the noble, vintage clan.

Her family manor sits upon a hillside, overlooking the moors, to the west of England. It is classically dramatic yet its artistry is its curse, neglecting to silence the ardent whispers of soulless beings operating inside the walls.

He cannot, asinine though it may be, fathom how this abode emulates the home of Roderick Usher. Certainly, reason nullifies this appraisal, the myth born within a minuscule division of his mind.

Cracking.

Ripping sounds.

Shrieks.

A stiff, inhuman aura.

Absurd are his notions, unequivocally mirages, and he knows not a single, mucky toe shall ever land across this threshold of purity.

Still, the sounds fragment his mind and he decays, with every tumbling particle.

Why, then, should he believe them spurious?

_I know not how it was—but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. _

Of stalking the manor, of standing before it on countless mornings, of awaiting its demise, it's crumble to ashes, he is liable.

_It is high time you abandon those silly, secular American fables and find yourself a good, wholesome wife._

Something—be it the echo of his mother's scolds or the fracas that erupts within the rundown, dusty pub—punctures the man's reverie. His head shoots upward as he spots, perhaps by providence, the woman.

He leans backward, worried she may recognize him and enter for the sake of inciting further taunts. Suddenly, she pauses and looks cautiously sweep about the street, through the mass of people, anxious of being sighted.

Moments later, the woman flees, quickly, down a dimly lit alley. The man wonders why she indulges this route, bolting into obscurity when such antics disgrace her fine upbringing.

The itinerary beckons for their signature game of cat and mouse.

It is dawn.

* * *

><p>Her gentle touch stops him, Scotland's frosty precipitation cloaking the entirety of Hogsmeade's guests.<p>

Frostbitten lips part as he uneasily slips her hand into hers, puzzled that she has taken the initiative to summon him and does not recoil from his unworthy touch.

"Hello." The girl says. Her eyes shine with mirthful malice and draw him closer. Over her shoulder, another brunette and a blonde share amused glances. To confess them "skilled" is an understatement; he is a fifth year and it is not a stretch to venture that he has been on the receiving end of more Dark Magic than the most accomplished Auror—it is inexplicable that the snow is presently exempt from his bloodshed.

"Hi...uh, ma'am." Giggles do not irk the boy, for her siblings are but impolite chavs, and his father says to always respect must always be shown to those in authority.

"You're a mudblood." She states, matter-of-factly.

"Yes." He nods, almost before she has the slur is finished. It's merely a slight and sticks and stones can't break his bones any more than her sisters have. "What can I do for you?"

She smiles. "Actually...a lot."

* * *

><p>He trembles, awed by the frigidity of dormitory. Its atmosphere parallels the disposition of she whom it quarters.<p>

Both parties' friends have departed for winter break and the pair comprise but a few students remaining at Hogwarts.

He has lied—and he _never_ lies—but knows it baseless for his parents to think him deceitful.

_The Head Girl and I have one final task to complete. Please, go on to Greece. I'll accompany you as soon as we wrap things up._

Which, if _she _has any say, (and she most certainly does), won't be in the near future.

The corset, the last article of clothing she wears, falls atop his cloak and badge, the latter the twin of her own. Even so, the pins' sparkles pale in comparison to that of the promise embellishing her finger.

He asks why she's done this, seized him from the Great Hall and dragged him to the dungeons, fully cognizant society will shun them.

"Well, that's just it." She replies, rolling her eyes at his naivety. Her alibi is that she is doing him a favor, that the pitiful creature he will undoubtedly wed in a year's time will never be able to do for him what she can.

She claims to want the pain _now _as opposed her wedding night. "You should be the one to have it."

No Hufflepuff man in his right mind would be _thinking_, in this position, but he is. And that, too, is just it. He's not in his right mind. If he were, self-defense would have come as second nature.

Something definitely isn't right. She's barely said two words to him all year and they've never really spoken in the two since meeting in the village.

She decides for him, in the wake of his reservations, setting his tongue ablaze with her kiss, incinerating his memory of her jewel. His boxers shed, as does his morality, and she takes him in her hand, with a satisfied stroke. "I need you. Now." She purrs into his ear.

Tonight, she is fire and he is ice.

Her seduction unmasks itself as the final invitation. His hand protects her head from the fury of the headboard; dolls are meant to be treasured.

Moans encapsulate the room as she slowly guides him into her. He mewls, much like a defenseless kitten, and thrusts deep into the wet heat, while her hands ensnare in the silken, emerald sheets.

Her throaty murmurs melt the crystal as his pace quickens, perspiration dripping to his chest.

She is too vocal for his liking, though inexperienced as he is, he should, perhaps, be more grateful for her gift, instead of critical of _her_.

"You are a Beater, am I right?" She caresses his abs and his blue eyes broaden at the nonsensical query.

"Yes." The coldness in his voice is spontaneous and bizarre. "Why?"

A smirk paints her face. "Because you, my dear, are bludgeoning me."

The trigger is pulled and he bursts, his seed catapulting her into waves of rapture. When the cries wane, he stares her with lusterless eyes.

There had been no barrier to breach.

* * *

><p>Third time's the charm.<p>

Once more, he glimpses her as she passes the pub, her haughty head elevated as she gazes down upon the townspeople, presenting herself to the world as the archetypal, upper-class pureblood woman.

Yet his recollections are too vivid to entomb and he pounces, leaping over the drunken band as they begin to play, scissoring through the mass of children and the elderly.

The task is rudimentary: capture the lioness, lest she strip every fiber of his being.

Dawn has birthed morning and dawn's child brings with her rays to bury the aristocrat's protective shade.

She sprints with an agility that no woman in stilettos should be endowed with. After an eternity, his long arm grasps the hood of her cloak and he flings her, carelessly, into the brick wall.

"Well, well, well." The woman breathes, unfazed at being cornered. "Theodore Tonks. We meet at last."

He leans forward and glowers, resisting the urge to slap her. "What the fuck are you playing at, Andromeda? Why are you making my life a living hell?"

She laughs, a shrill, arrogant cackle which splits his spleen, and uncannily mimics a crow's caw. Russet orbs brighten with synthetic purity as she sings, "What _ever _do you mean? My husband..." Ted's eyes flicker to a new, larger diamond, "would kill you if found me so."

He scoffs outright at that. "Husband..." he mocks aloud. "I see you haven't changed, Black."

"You forget I belong to another. I'm a—"

"I don't give two bloody fucks." Ted's frenzy seeps through his eyes then, the remainder of his pride floating to the Heavens as an offer of repentance, enabling him to plead, "Please, let me go."

His strife is an addition to their tin of scarce, genuine conversation; another bucket overflows with gasped pleasures amongst the vines of immoral lust. Her thorn-leash binds him, chokes him in this damned, tortuous cycle of dependency.

He is her puppet, but he is worn, and so is his stitching.

Andromeda exhales, tiredly. "Enough begging, my little Teddy bear. It's so..._common_." She unexpectedly knees him in the crotch and frees herself.

"Stand up." She commands, seconds later, rubbing her wrists as he doubles over in agony. "Did you not hear me?"

Shudders are his retort. Vexed at his disobedience, Andromeda grabs Ted by the collar and reverses their previous arrangements. Her wand pierces the skin beneath his chin, forcing his head to incline.

"You're so transparent." She drawls, smoothly. "It's been the same thing, for years now. _You_, practically living in that old pub. _You_ chasing me down, morning after morning, all for the appeasement of _yourself_.

He is speechless, filled with remorse as he decomposes with each beat of her tongue.

"_Your _hand has spun, and unhinged, this roulette wheel."

Ted falters, victimized by the dominatrix. Her sultry speech sears his flesh and surrenders all resolve to the wind. His teeth shred her delicate, black satin dress as Andromeda's sharp, red fingernails draw blood from his neck.

It won't be much longer before someone catches them, shagging in public like two dogs in heat.

It never is.

Naturally, the probability induces no fretting. The murders will fructify, until her unicorn core makes like his spirit and dies.

"We have company." Ted groans, alerting her of a passerby bewitched by the indecency.

A bloodcurdling scream, as Andromeda's wand emits a flash of green light (he wishes he were in the line of fire)—and then, calm.

_As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found the potency of a spell..._

Always a lady, Andromeda's climax drowns, the back of her hand blessed with the imprint of crimson lips.

Ted's eyes roll to the back of his head as he pours into her. His mouth is dry, his tongue absent with self-loathing.

Andromeda wipes away the liquid pearl, his only freedom—however false—as it scurries down his flushed cheek.

His last faithful strand of wit commits treason and dissolves.

He whom lies with a bitch should not beg exoneration from her fleas.

In this, their immortal game of archery, she is the longbow and he is her bulls-eye.

Ted sighs, bracing himself for his inevitable reckoning with fire and brimstone.

It's morning again.

**:~:**

**Fin. **

_Thoughts? Do tell, especially if you elect to favorite! _


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